Eric took a long drag on his cigarette and coughed. He looked angrily at the stub between his fingers; it was burnt past the filter. He sighed and flicked the butt away. His fingers groped in the tight pocket of his artfully torn designer jeans for the crushed pack of clove cigarettes.
It began to drizzle. He leaned forward from the stone wall until he could see the steeple with its cross, outlined against the pewter clouds. He gave it the finger.
He opened the sanctuary door to a blast of stale air. He cast a glance at the casket and the worn-looking woman standing before it. He made his way toward the back row, but was intercepted by a burly man wearing a moth-eaten tan suit.
“Boy, what you doin’ here after all this time?” the man demanded.
Eric shrugged. “Mother said something about a will,” he replied coolly. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on the five bucks he left me, would I?”
“I think you need to leave,” the man drawled.
“Well, honey, that’s just too bad.”
“You disrespectful son of a…” He paused and glanced up to the gaudy plastic form of Christ at the pulpit. “Sorry, Lord,” he muttered. “You git on outta here, boy.”
Eric turned away. A fist slammed into the side of his head; he saw a burst of color as he went down. He lay on the floor, blinking in surprise. And people always asked him why he never went home.